Wine, Waves & Butterflies

“You’re going away for work?”

“It’s not exactly work, honey. It’s a conference,” I said to my daughter, with what I hoped was believable conviction - glad we were on the phone and she couldn't see my face. "I'm looking forward to it."

There was a pause before she answered. I worried she’d heard the lie in my voice. “But I thought you hated those things. And why did they schedule it on a weekend?”

“The conference doesn’t really start until Monday, but I thought I’d get there a little early.” I crossed my fingers.

“But Jim and I thought you’d like to come spend the weekend with us, see the kids?”

The cynical voice in my head thought that my daughter and her husband were also hoping for baby-sitting services, as well. “I appreciate that, but I really do want to go to this conference.”

“It’s just…” This time there was a longer pause. This time I knew what the hesitation was about, and what was coming. “…it was just your wedding anniversary and Dad’s birthday is coming up. I hate to think of you on your own this week.”

With a somewhat guilty conscious, I doubled down on the lie. “And you have been very sweet the last few years to make sure I wasn’t alone, but I’m OK. Really. Keeping busy is the best thing for me.”

A sigh. “You’re sure? Call me, though.”

Uncrossing my fingers and pushing aside the guilt, I said, “I will. Now don’t worry about me and have a nice weekend.”

As I hung up the phone, butterflies fluttered in my stomach. I couldn’t remember when I’d last had that particular sensation. Although I don’t enjoy lying to my children, it was nice to know I could still be impulsive and even a little mischievous. And that I could surprise myself.

I opened my laptop and logged onto the website with the rental information on the bungalow I’d booked in Nantucket. There was no conference. Nor was there an illicit lover waiting for me on the island. There was no memory-filled spot I’d once shared with my late husband. I hadn’t been there myself since I was a child, but I had a vague recollection of quiet beaches and cold, crashing waves. I wanted both.

On my drive to the ferry, I began to feel more nervous than adventurous. What did I think I was doing sneaking off by myself to a small island where I didn’t know a soul? Then I remembered, that was exactly why I was going. No one was going to act concerned when they remembered it would have been Bob’s birthday. What I wanted, needed, was to stare at the waves and feel salt air on my face with a glass of Merlot in my hand.

I’d had this daydream a month ago, and when I’d pictured how that would feel - the water, wind and wine - I couldn’t stop myself from Googling beach cottages for rent. Before I knew what I was doing, my credit card was in my hand and a tiny cedar-sided bungalow in Nantucket was mine for a long weekend. I hadn’t told anyone, not my friends or my children, about my plan to go away alone, because I thought they might see it as a lonely or sad thing to do and try to talk me out of it. I didn’t think they’d understand that what I was really feeling was independent and spontaneous.

As my car bumped off the ferry and rattled onto the cobblestone streets of Nantucket, some of my resolve was shaken along with the car. I hadn’t traveled on my own in 30-years. My travels had typically been with my husband, my kids, my friends, even with people from work. Now, I was alone bumbling around with the GPS, trying to pull up the address of the cottage on my phone, and then someone honked their horn behind me. Flustered, I drove to a parking area and finally programed in the address - the robotic voice giving me some direction. I took a deep breath and pulled out onto the road towards my temporary home.

Twenty-minutes later, the GPS directed me to turn off the main road onto a gravel drive. Worried I’d made a wrong turn, my fears were allayed as a glimpse of the ocean just beyond the silvery shingles of a beach bungalow came into view. My throat tightened. It was exactly as I'd imagined it.

There was a coded lock on the front door. Tapping in the numbers, with a beep and a whir, the lock released and I walked into a narrow room with rustic wood floors, white-washed walls and simple lace curtains framing the windows. The windows were framing the sea. The glorious, crashing, grey, cold sea. I dropped my bag onto the floor with a thud and walked like a zombie through the house and out the back door.

Letting the sharp wind whip my grey streaked auburn hair around my face and blow sand against my body, I stood staring at the ocean until the sun lowered in the sky. As if coming out of a trance, I finally turned and walked back into the house. Finding the bathroom off a diminutive galley kitchen, I took a warm washcloth and wiped gently at my windswept face, staring in the mirror at my pink cheeks and tousled hair.

Back in the kitchen I grabbed my bag and took out my supplies, which consisted mostly of cheese, crusty bread, and my favorite Merlot. The kitchen had only a few drawers and cabinets; I found the wine opener in the second drawer I tried. With a satisfying sound, the cork popped out and I set the bottle down on the worn butcher-block table to breath, turning my attention back to the cabinets in search of a wine glass. Luckily, I found that on my first try.

I watched a pink tinge illuminate the sky as I poured the rich, red wine into the glass. Swirling it around, my attention was drawn away from the wine by the sound of barking. Curious, I pulled a throw off the back of a chair and wrapped it around my shoulders, walking out onto the back porch. The sound of barking grew louder and a shaggy black and white mutt with sand-matted fur bounded up to me. I scratched his head. “Well, hello there.”

Rubbing his wet, sandy side against my leg, I laughed as his big brown eyes gave me a soulful look and his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. “What’s your name?”

A deep voice yelling, “Max!” drifted down the beach.

I patted his head. “I’m guessing it’s Max.” He shook the sand off his coat and sat down in front of me as if waiting for something. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any treats for you, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”

“Max!” A man with grey stubble on a strong chin, green-eyes, and a cable-knit sweater fraying at the sleeves, ran up to the porch. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what's gotten into him. He doesn’t usually take off like that.” He grabbed the dog around the collar, although Max looked like he had no intention of moving.

“It’s fine." I brushed the sand off my jeans. "I’m a lover of dogs, wet or otherwise.”

Looking up from his errant pet, the man focused on my face and relaxed when he saw my smile. “I am sorry he got you all wet,” motioning to my damp pants.

I shrugged. “They’ll dry.”

Max began to sniff around the porch and drag his owner around with him. “He is definitely interested in something up here.”

As I watched Max sniff diligently at every corner of the porch, my stomach growled and I remembered I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. “Um, can you tell me if there’s any place to eat close to here, or do I need to go back into town?”

Hooking his finger more securely around the dog’s collar, he said, “Yeah, there’s a little bistro over by Sconset Beach. Just keep heading east, you’ll see it.” He gave me a crooked smile and stuck out his free hand. “Hi, I’m Tony, by the way. I live a few places down the beach.”

“Susan.” Putting my hand in his warm and slightly callused one, our handshake lingered until Max lurched off the porch dragging Tony with him. He gave a wave and chased the dog back down the beach. I noticed the butterflies were back again.

I found the café without a problem and was shown to a table on the patio, the sound of waves mixing with the soft notes of jazz coming from the bar. I ordered a glass of Merlot and settled in to look at the menu. A few minutes later, a shadow moved across the table and I looked up to see Tony standing there, a sheepish look on his face.

He held his hands up. “I’m not stalking you, I swear. There just aren’t too many places to eat out this way.”

The other tables were full, so I nodded at the empty seat at mine. “You’re welcome to join me.”

Running a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, he thanked me and sat down. I was going to offer him the menu, but the waitress came over and handed him a beer, and then asked if he wanted his usual.

I raised an eyebrow. “I guess you do come here a lot?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I don’t cook very well, so I’m here a couple times a week.” He tapped the menu. “I’d recommend the Halibut.”

The waitress dropped off my wine and we gave each other a quick salute with our glasses, and then turned to look at the sunset. After a while, Tony asked about where I lived and my work, my family. I told him I’d been a widow for two-years and had three grown children and two grandchildren. He told me he was a retired engineer and he’d been divorced for five years. The conversation moved onto what was our favorite music and where we’d each traveled.

After dinner the waitress brought me a second glass of Merlot and Tony was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “I need to confess, I may have been stalking you just a tiny bit. I did come here because I thought I might see you.”

I took a long sip of wine and reminded myself that I was being spontaneous. “And you should know that this is the first, first date I’ve had in over 30-years. My conversation skills might be a little rusty.”

His smile broadened and he leaned back in his chair. “I don't know. I've been enjoying your conversation just fine." He scratched his head. "So, you think we're on a date, huh?"

"As I said, it's been a few decades, but this is what I vaguely remember a date was suppose to be. Dinner, drinks, getting to know each other."

He took a sip of beer and nodded thoughtfully. "Well, I think I need to give Max an extra treat when I get home. It feels like he fixed us up.”

I raised my glass once again. “To Max.”